(Hæmon stands motionless.)
Charles: Let no one groan. I say let no one groan—
Fury on him that groans! (He blindly rocks to and fro.)
Fulvia: My lord!
Charles (taking her hand): Well—come.
(As in a trance.)
There's much to do. We will think of the dead.
Perchance 'twill keep them near us: speak to them,
And they may answer while we wait, may float
Dim words on moonbeams to us. O for one
That shall sound of forgiveness and of rest!
(More wildly.)
O I have started on the mountain's brow
A tremor that has loosed the avalanche;
And penitence too late—too late—too late—
Was powerless as flowers along its path!
(He sinks back into his chair and stares hopelessly before him.)